


Five Times Blaine Dropped Everything For Kurt (And One Time The Tables Were Turned)

by theworldwhispers



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Angst, Complete, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworldwhispers/pseuds/theworldwhispers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dalton Blaine and Kurt's Blaine are two different people. Can he reconcile the two in time to salvage a relationship? Will Kurt forgive him, and maybe even grow to love him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Blaine Dropped Everything For Kurt (And One Time The Tables Were Turned)

1.

_So let go, so let go, jump in._

_Oh well, whatcha waiting for?_

_It's alright, 'cause there's_

_Beauty in the breakdown._

" **Let Go" – Frou Frou**

"I take it you're having trouble at school."

The boy, Kurt, already had tears brimming his eyes. "I'm the only person out of the closet at my school. I-I tried to stay strong about it, but there's this Neanderthal who's made it his mission to make my life a living hell." He pauses, and I stare at him, trying to be reassuring without interrupting him. He clearly had more to say, and as much as I want to stop him right now and tell him that I understand and,  _my dear, it will all be okay, just please don't ever cry like this again_ , I know it isn't the time. "But nobody seems to notice," he confesses, his voice cracking on the last word.

It takes all my strength not to push the table out of the way and engulf him in a hug. "I know how you feel," I say. "I got taunted at my old school, and it really pissed me off. I even complained about it to the faculty, and they were sympathetic and all, but you could just tell nobody really…cared. It was like, 'Hey, if you're gay, your life's just going to be miserable. Sorry. Nothing we can do about it.'"

I pause. I've never gone into detail about why I transferred. Sure, Dalton may have a no tolerance bullying policy, but I didn't want my past broadcasted for everyone to know. Even Wes and David, whom I've known since the middle of my freshman year, know nothing. All they know? I can sing. So they pulled me into the Warblers. So why now? Why is this different? _I'm…I'm not ready to talk about this,_  I realize.

"So I left. I came here. Simple as that." I take another deep breath. Hopefully Kurt will realize that that is the end of conversation about me. "So you have two options. I mean, I'd love to tell you to just come enroll here, but tuition at Dalton is kind of steep, and I-I know that's not an option for everybody." I wish it was, however. I can just tell that this kid would benefit from the shelter of Dalton. I've only ever seen that much fear on one other face – the one in the mirror. "Or…you can refuse to be the victim. Prejudice is just ignorance, Kurt, and you have a chance right now to teach him."

He manages to squeak out one word: "How?"

"Confront him. Call him out." I give him a small, crooked smile. God, I'm such a hypocrite. My mind is screaming,  _Don't listen to me, kid. I don't know what I'm talking about._  Time to fess up. "I ran, Kurt. I didn't stand up. I let bullies chase me away, and it is something that I really, really regret."

Kurt glances up at me, tears spilling over, before reaching across the table and gently – with only a slight hesitation – placing his hand on top of mine. "Blaine," he begins, and I know what's coming. "What happened to you? I know I've barely known you, and forgive me if I'm out of line here, but you've shut down. Just in the brief time from when we first met to now."

I sigh and attempt to stall for time by sipping at my latte, but there's nothing left.  _I guess we've been here longer than I thought. Wes is going to kill me for missing rehearsal._  "Ah, it's – it's empty," I say, followed by a slightly awkward laugh.

Kurt joins me, adding in that his is still practically full if I would like any, saying, "I guess I forgot about it. I'm sorry for wasting it."

I brush it off, but then the awkward silence returns, and I know he's waiting for me to address what he said – whether by shooting down the topic or talking. "It, ah, it started in sixth grade," I begin.

But then, it all comes flooding back. Every shove, every name, every glare, and before I know it I'm excusing myself to head to the restroom, hands shaking uncontrollably.

I lock the door behind me and let go. Emotion I don't let myself feel and remember anymore. Tears I think I have long since shed. It feels like forever that I stay cooped up in that tiny, dimly lit, horribly decorated room. Seven minutes later, and after a thorough cleaning off of my face to hide the evidence, I exit, fully expecting one Kurt Hummel to have left.

But he's still there. And he doesn't say anything about how red and puffy my face must look when I sit back down. He just hands me a tissue and smiles.

"Now, where were we?" I ask. Kurt just stares at me, wordless. How is it that he knows exactly what I need? It's like he knows that, if he talks, if he stops me, I'm likely to lose my resolve again. So I fold my hands in my lap, suddenly finding them very interesting to look at, and continue talking. "Like I said, it started in sixth grade. I was best friends with this boy named Will. Our houses were next to each other, so we'd basically grown up together. We did everything together. It never occurred to me that how I felt about him wasn't…completely appropriate. For our friendship, I mean," I added quickly. I didn't want to give Kurt the impression that I was ashamed of who I am, or that I thought it was wrong.

"But then the infamous school dances began, as they always do in middle school. All of the guys went stag, because…I guess that was the cool thing to do then. Everyone had the mentality that relationships were disgusting, that the opposite gender was gross. Maybe that's what gave me the courage to do it," I say, a short, dark laugh escaping, before I finally raise my eyes to meet Kurt's gaze. "I asked him to dance."

One of Kurt's perfectly tamed eyebrows raises in an unspoken question:  _You really thought that was a good idea?_  But his eyes also hold understanding and sadness.

"Yeah, smart move, right? Well he flipped out. He backed away from me, out onto the dance floor, yelling about how I was a perv and a fag and trying to convert him. The teachers eventually came over to ask what was causing a commotion, but by then I had already started to move towards the doors. I made a beeline for the porch, needing fresh air. I sat on the steps, trying to understand why what I had done was so wrong, when I heard the door to the gym slam loudly behind me. And there he was, with a bunch of dumb, eighth grade jocks." I shake my head, looking out the window. "They broke my arm."

Kurt's resolve to stay silent broke with a strangled cry. "They didn't! Blaine, did you go back inside to tell someone?"

"No. I just called my mom, and she took me to the hospital. When she asked what happened, I told her I fell." I shrug off my blazer and roll up the sleeve of the shirt beneath, showing Kurt the scar than ran the length of my forearm. "They had to put a rod in my arm. The break was pretty bad. But my mom believed me. That time, at least."

"Y-you mean, they came after you again? But he was your friend!"

I close my eyes and try to even my breathing. I want nothing more than to run away from this conversation. But it's only just begun. I open my mouth, and continue, letting the walls fall for the first time.

2.

_This world keeps on spinning._

_Only she stills my heart._

_She's my inspiration,_

_She's my northern star._

" **In Her Eyes" – Josh Groban**

My foot is jiggling. My mom places her hand on my knee in an attempt to calm me, but the restricted movement does nothing but cause more anxiety. I jump up and begin pacing.

"They said 9 AM, mom. It's nearly 10. What if they don't want me anymore? What if they realized they made some tragic mistake in calling me here? What if the-"

She cuts me off by grabbing my hand and pulling me back towards my seat. "Blaine, honey, they're just running late. They have a lot of people to interview today; it's a very prestigious scholarship. And trust me, they didn't make a mistake in calling you here. Your grades are impeccable, your test scores are high, and you're in so many extracurricular activities that I bet the yearbook photographer groans when you walk in the room."

I scowl at her. "Gee, thanks, mother dearest. I feel the love."

She slaps my arm playfully. "You know what I mean. They would be crazy not to take you. You'd make an excellent addition to their freshman class next year." I notice that she trails off here, and I manage to calm my nervous movement long enough to ask her what's wrong.

"I just…I wish your father could be here for this. I know he has to be proud of you," she confesses.

I snort.  _My father, proud?_  "Mom, my father has not been home for a consecutive amount of time longer than a weekend since he found out. Need I remind you?"

She sighs. I know it must be hard for her, never having her husband around. I don't know why she doesn't blame me more, really. "You know that was because of his promotion. He has a lot of business to attend to."

I have to really fight the urge to roll my eyes. "And yet he has time to visit Melanie?" I raise an eyebrow at her. "Face it, mom. It's not that he's immersed in work. It's that he's avoiding what's at home. Trust me, as soon as I move away, he'll be back." I mutter the last part, staring at the door to the interview room off in the distance.

I can feel her arms engulfing me before I even hear her move. "Hon, I know your father isn't the most…understanding of all men, but he does love you. He just doesn't understand you. He just wants what's best for you, you know. He wants-"

I stand up, unable to take her touching me while she spews such lies. "What he  _wants_  is a son he can be proud of. A son like him. Melanie is  _normal_ , so she gets plenty of affection. He goes to all of her productions, her concerts, her art galleries. He's always there, always with gifts, always with a smile. I haven't seen him since I told him I was gay."

My mother glances around, making sure we don't have an audience.  _There she goes, always looking out for her reputation first._

"That's not entirely him, Blaine. You refuse to come home when he announces he's returning from a trip. And he is proud of you. I send him your grades, reviews of your shows. I told him you had taken on the role of the lead soloist this year, and he said that was good. He's plenty proud."

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and although she continues praising my father's attempts at caring for me, I tune her out as I pull it out of my pocket. One missed call? As I slide my thumb across the screen to unlock it, another screen pops up.

Six new messages:

_Blaine, do you have a minute?_

_Can I call? You have study hall now, right?_

_Blaine, please answer. I need to talk to someone._

_Courage backfired on me._

_Are you there? Please answer me._

_Please…?_

I stare at the phone in my hand, a million scenarios running through my head. What did he mean, courage had backfired? Did he stand up to Karofsky? Was he hurt somehow? I must have stood there like that for a long time, because when I finally look up, my mom and some uptight looking woman with a clipboard are staring at me with concerned looks.

"Blaine, honey, they called your name. Your interview needs to start now." My mom places a hand on my shoulder, her eyebrows furrowing together.

I turn my gaze to the woman, who is looking at me over the top of her way-too-large glasses frames. "Interview. Right," I mumble.

I turn to look at my mom, trying to convey apologies with my eyes. She always said they were my most expressive feature.  _She's going to kill me for this._  I take a deep breath, and hand my resumé to the clipboard woman. "Here's my resumé, ma'am, but I'm sorry. I'm going to have to leave. I would love to come to your school, and I would love to participate in your fine arts programs, but right now, I have a friend who really needs me. So I'm going to have to respectfully decline your interview. I apologize again," I say while stuffing a few loose papers into my messenger bag. I hurry over to shake her hand, trying not to laugh at the completely baffled look on her face, before turning to leave.

I can hear the  _click-click-click_  of my mother's stilettos on the tile floor as she runs after me. A harsh hand grabs my shoulder and spins me around. "Blaine Anderson, if you walk out of this interview right now, so help me God, I will call your father and have him home tonight." Her eyes narrow, and I briefly consider that she's serious. If I didn't know her better, I'd bet that she was.

"I'm sorry, mom. But this is just something I have to do. Kurt needs me." I shrug her hand off my shoulder.

She rolls her eyes. "So this is about a boy? Blaine, there will  _be_  other boys! Don't throw away your future for this one. He will understand when you explain to him that you were at an interview for a  _full-ride scholarship to an Ivy League university_."

"I have no doubt he would understand, but that may not be enough. He was begging for my help. Something is wrong; I can just feel it."

My mother shakes her head, taking a step back from me. A perfectly manicured hand pinches the bridge of her nose as she speaks. "Why are you doing this to us, Blaine?"

I smile, but not out of joy – rather out of spite. It doesn't reach my eyes. " _To_  you? I'm not doing anything to you. I'm doing something for someone outside this family, for once!" My voice is escalating. Unless I want to make a scene and completely ruin my chances here (because I'm hoping that there's still a slight chance they'll at least accept me, even if it isn't on scholarship), I need to calm down. When I speak again, my voice is barely a whisper. "Because, I know how it feels to be alone. And nobody should have to go through that."

"You're not alone! You have your sister. You have me. You have Wes and David, as well as all the other Warblers. You have your fath-" She stops. "Well, regardless, you have a lot of people looking out for you, who care about you."

I just shake my head. She doesn't understand, and she never will. I give her a small hug, whispering a quick " _I'm sorry, but I have to_ " into her ear, before running off, my phone already to my ear as I round the corner.

Kurt answers immediately, "Blaine?" His voice is shaky. He sniffles, and it's as if I can feel my heart breaking. "What took you so long?"

I'm still running to my car, so my voice is breathy and ragged. "I'm sorry. I…I was busy. What is it? Did he hurt you? Are you okay?"

Silence.

"C-can you just come here?"

I finally reach my car. After fumbling for what feels like an hour with my keys, I slide in and am on my way to McKinley in seconds. "I'm on my way. It'll be about two hours until I arrive," I admit.  _Damn this place for being so far away._ At least I didn't have to go all the way to Cornell. Luckily for both Kurt and I, they had a preview day at a local university. But Westerville was still two hours from Lima.

"But Kurt, what happened?" I ask again.

Another painstakingly long bout of silence.

"He kissed me," he finally whispers.

My mother would be even more ashamed of me for the string of curse words that left my mouth, and I'm sure my car didn't appreciate the battering the steering wheel took. I pull over into the emergency lane on the interstate, not trusting myself to drive just then.

"Blaine…are you still there?" Kurt shy voice pulls me back to reality, and I try to even out my breathing.

I nod, but then realizing he can't see me, I say, "Yeah, Kurt, I'm here. I'll be there as soon as I can, okay? When is your lunch break?"

"In about an hour and a half."

I quickly pull back onto the interstate, easily going 10 miles per hour over the speed limit now.

"I'll be there," I say. "Don't worry, Kurt. I'll be there."

3.

_Step up to me._

_I know that you've got something buried._

_I'll set you free._

_You set conditions, but I've had enough._

" **Can't Take It" – All American Rejects**

"Just…tell me the truth," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.  _Oh man, I'm turning into my mom. Great._

Wes stares up at me, his fist still clenched tightly around the handle of his gavel. His other hand clutches a piece of paper – the final tally for the sectional solo votes. "I don't know what you mean, Blaine. I gave you the results of the audition."

Rule number two of the Warblers: You never question the council. But I wasn't questioning the council – I was questioning Wes. My friend, Wes, who I had known for three years now. My friend, Wes, who knew how I felt about Kurt. My friend, Wes, who made me break him down anyway.

It was protocol, he said. That was when I flipped.

"' _Protocol?'_  Protocol? You told me he had lost the vote."

Wes' stare softens. Both he and I knew we were walking thin lines. As a Warbler, I should not be talking to a member of the council like this. But as my friend, he shouldn't be trying to pull this over on me. Or Kurt.

"He did lose the vote, Blaine. Technically, at least."

I walk up to the table the council sits at – the table I was offered a seat at and turned down – and place my hands on it, leaning down towards the only other person in the room with me.

"Show me the paper, Wes," I say. Not ask – say. I hold my hand out, not trying to disguise that it's shaking. My voice is harsh, much harsher than I've ever used with my friends before. I feel bad, briefly, but the feeling quickly passes, replaced again by the anger bubbling inside.

He shuffles the paper inside a file folder. "You know I can't do that. I can't show you anything that happens between the three of us."

"Screw the council, and screw the rules, Wes. Give me the paper."

Wes stands, also placing his hands on the table. He towers over me, of course, but I stand my ground. He opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it, quickly looking around. Before I know what's happening, he's moving out from behind the table and rushing towards the door.

"You can't run from this," I yell after him.

But he doesn't exit the room. He doesn't leave. He just sticks his head into the hallway, looking back and forth for anyone listening, before closing and locking the door. Slowly, but looking very determined, he walks back to the table and resumes his seated position. After a long period of silence, he slowly hands the folder over.

My hands are so shaky that I drop it the first time I get a grasp on it. Quickly regaining composure, I open it, staring down at the top piece of paper. Wordlessly, my eyes scan the sheet. After about five minutes, I put the folder down and stare at Wes.

He's suddenly finding his shoes very interesting.

"Wes, look at me." He doesn't. "Seriously, Wes. What the hell is this?" My voice is completely deadpan, and eerily quiet. "Only three people didn't vote for Kurt. Why was he the only one who didn't move on?"

He grabs the folder and quickly stuffs it into his messenger bag. He's still looking around, as if someone is watching him. I can't blame him. What he's done could cost him his position. Finally, once he's completely sure the folder is hidden and that nobody else has managed to sneak into the room, he turns to me.

"Blaine, what kind of a show choir are we?" he asks, sounding suddenly very tired.

My eyebrows furrow together, confused. "An a cappella choir. What does that have to do with anyt-"

"No, Blaine," he interrupts, holding a hand up to stop me from exploding on him. "I mean, what kind of music do we do?"

I freeze. I know the answer. "Top 40."

Wes walks around the table and stands next to me, placing his hand gently on my shoulder. "Exactly. We sing top 40 hits. Between 'Teenage Dream' and 'Hey, Soul Sister,' Kurt should have understood that. But he comes in here and auditions with a huge, iconic Broadway number like 'Don't Cry for Me, Argentina.'" He gives me a slight smile. "It was flawlessly performed, yes, but it isn't what we  _do_. He needs to learn to mesh with us. That's what an a cappella group does. It's not about one star. It's about the overall performance. He can't stand out here."

I shrug his hand off his shoulder.  _I seem to be doing that a lot lately._

"That's not who he is, Wes. He's not one to stand by idly in the background. He's so much more than that," I point out. "That's why we admitted him to the Warblers, no questions asked. Because we needed someone like that. Remember?"

"No, Blaine. We needed his range. Not his…diva."

"You know, Wes, I thought this was a school with no tolerance for bullying," I point out. "I thought this was a place where people were accepted for who they are, no matter what, with no need to hide anything."

I stand up, walking to the door and unlocking it. With one foot out the door, I turn around and glance at my friend again. He looks upset – guilty and yet resolved. I know he's torn, and I know what I'm doing is unfair, but I can't stop myself. Something about Kurt Hummel brings out my utmost protective instincts.

"The Warblers aren't bullies, Blaine, and you know that. You know how we work. You, of all people, know how and why we do things the way we do them. A good Warbler – a good Dalton student – follows the rules." It's a subtle jab.  _You're the lead soloist,_  he's saying.  _You better not risk that. Not for this boy. Follow the rules, and don't question things. Just like you always have._

"Yeah?" I ask. "Well, maybe the way we do things should change. You three really vetoed the votes on a solo just because he picked the wrong song? You could've just told him the song choice was wrong. You didn't have to punish him. And if that's what 'good Warblers' do, then maybe I don't want to be one."

Wes' eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. "A Warbler?"

I pause. I don't want to quit, no. I love singing, and I love the flawless harmonies the Warblers can produce, even moreso now that we have a countertenor. But if this is how things are being run –  _have they always been run like this, and I've just never noticed?_ –then at this point, I wanted no part of it.

"I'll always be a Warbler. I just…don't approve of this underhandedness. I'm glad I'm not in your position, Wes. I could never be a council member if this is what you call doing 'good.'" This time, it's my turn for the slight blow.  _I hate what you've done,_  I'm saying.  _And I hate it's_ you  _that's done it. You're better than this. You're not this tough goody-two-shoes._

I wait for Wes to come over, sure that he'll walk over and we'll leave together. But he doesn't come. I turn back to him, and he's standing there, messenger bag tucked closely in to his side.

I give him a nod and, silently, like the bad friend I am, I leave.

4.

_Broken heart, one more time._

_Pick yourself up. Why even cry?_

_Broken pieces in your hands,_

_Wonder how you'll make it whole._

" **Porcelain Heart" – BarlowGirl**

Wes, David, and I were in the commons, attempting to study for our English Literature final taking place the next morning. Our concentration was shoddy enough as it is, due to the blizzard that seemed to be happening outside and the shouts of students playing in the snow, but it was worsened by the prospect of simply going over centuries of work.

"So let me get this straight," David began. "This insane man commits all these crimes, which the Pope does nothing to stop, and the only person who will stand up to him is his daughter? So to silence her, he decides to  _attack_  her?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Apparently so. Shelley wrote some messed up things, but this play is by far the worst. Between the incest and the murder and everything else, I don't know how Dr. Green got it approved." I flip a page in my notes in front of me, searching for more helpful things to throw out to the group.

"Wait," Wes asks. "So who is Marzio? And Giacomo? In fact, can we just go over the characters. I'm so lost."

I turn back about three pages to what I think was once a list of characters in Percy Shelley's  _The Cenci_. It's pretty hard to read now, though, between all the doodles and song lyrics. I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose slightly, hoping that would somehow make the scribbles clearer. It didn't. "Uhh, well, you have Cenci, of course: he's the Count and the villain here. He's Lucretia's husband and Beatrice's father. And," I squint at the page, "Uhh, Giacomo and Bernard's father?"

"Bernardo," David quips, also flipping through his notes. "And Marzio and Olympio are the assassins. I know that much. 'Cause they were sucky assassins."

We laugh. 'Cause it's true. They were awful assassins. They wimp out on the first try and are bullied into finishing the act by a girl, only to cave and blurt out the whole story when they're taken to court. Not exactly the epitome of stealth.

"Okay, so what about Orsino? He's important, right? He manipulates Giacomo into agreeing to kill his dad, so surely that's important." I run my fingers through my hair, regretting instantly that I left the dorm without gelling it down today. Stressful studying plus running hands through curly hair tends to equal disaster.

Just then, a group of three other people I recognize as juniors – one being a Warbler – walk in and sit at a table on the other side of the room. Even from here, however, we could hear a good bit of their conversation.

"-hasn't come out of his room all day-"

"-I know! Good thing it's the weekend so he didn't miss classes-"

"-heard he's been crying most of the time too. Aaron knocked, but-"

"-yeah, he's not opening the door, I heard. Someone really should go check-"

"-sure he's fine. If anything was seriously wrong, he'd talk to the administration, or his family-"

"-family is over two hours away, idiot-"

Wes and David exchange knowing looks while I strain to hear more of the other group's conversation without appearing to eavesdrop.

"Blaine, we know you're worried, but if it is Kurt they're talking about, he'll be okay. He'd have called or texted if he wanted you to come to him. He always does," Wes chirps, mumbling the last bit to himself and David.

I turn back to them, a pained look on my face. "Guys, it has to be him. Who else do we know who: A) has family two hours away, B) who is dramatic enough to lock themselves in a room for two days, C) has a roommate named Aaron? What if something is really wrong?"

David slides a pencil into his anthology and closes it. "Look, we understand you're concerned, but this exam is 45% of our final grade. You have to study –  _we_  have to study. You can check on him before you go back to your dorm tonight, or tomorrow morning after the exam. We're free after the test is done anyway."

They have a point. I hate to admit it, but they do. I can't afford to fail this test. I've missed class enough due to my spontaneous trips to Lima before Kurt transferred that my grade will already be affected. Sighing, I admit defeat and open my anthology again.

"Okay, so where were we? Should we talk about themes?" My hands instantly find my hair again. It's a habit, what can I say? Stress does this to me.

"Sure," Wes agrees. "I have a few written down that Green discussed. The first one says something about the strength of thoughts and their motivating power, as well as something about articulation," he trails off, looking at his notes like they're in a foreign language. "It must be important. I drew a star by it, see?" He holds up the notebook for proof, as if we didn't believe him.

"-nothing but sappy music playing for hours on end-"

"-totally sad. I wonder what's wrong-"

As much as I try to listen to Wes and David tossing out ideas about themes (psychotherapy, actualization of desires, silence, shame), I keep picking up pieces of the other conversation in the room.

"-heard him on the phone earlier, but couldn't figure out what was going-"

"-heard his dad was in the hospital recently. Maybe that-"

I stand, my chair making an awful scraping noise on the floor that could be easily compared to nails on a chalkboard. I hurriedly stuff my notes and book into my bag, simultaneously trying to stuff my feet back into my shoes, before turning to my two study partners.

"I'm sorry, but I have to check on him. If it's not him, I'll be right back, I swear."

Just before I run out of the room, I hear Wes yell back, "And if it is him?"

Ten minutes and one sprint across the Dalton Academy grounds later, I'm standing outside room 127 in the west wing's third year hall. The sobs that are just barely audible over the sentimental music confirm my worst suspicions. I close my eyes, leaning my forehead to the door, one hand pressed against it. I knock gently, but loud enough that he can hear me.

"Go away, Aaron," Kurt yells, his voice breaking.

Being a prefect has it's advantages sometimes, though, and I unlock the door with the master key and step gingerly inside the room. "It's…not Aaron, obviously."

Kurt immediately sits up on his bed, wiping his sleeve across his face and straightening his hair in one fell swoop. He clears his throat, trying to maintain at least a little dignity, before speaking again. "Blaine? What are you doing here? I thought I had the door locked."

I hold up the keys, jiggling them slowly. "Master key. Senior prefect of the north wing," I admit. "But that's not important. What's wrong, Kurt?" I sit next to him on the bed, and I'm not surprised when my hand finds its way to his knee.

I am surprised, however, when he pulls away. He pushes himself into the corner of his bed, as far from me as he can get at this point.

"D-did I do something to upset you?" I ask, setting my bag and the keys down on the floor. "Kurt, I would never hurt you. I'm really sorry if I'm the reason you're-" I glanced around the room, gesturing to the tissues littering the floor, as well as the laptop playing music solely in minor keys.

He pulls his knees to his chest, setting his chin atop them. "Maybe you should leave," he whispers.

I must look really upset, because he pulls his eyes away from mine, putting his head face down on top of his knees. Deciding to risk it, however, I move closer to him, knowing he can't move away this time.

"Kurt, what did I do? Please, talk to me," I say, placing two fingers under his chin and attempting to raise his gaze. "I can't fix it unless I know what I did."

He mumbles, but since his face is in his knees, I can't understand him. I beg him to look at me again, but it doesn't work.

I sit with him there for a few more minutes, but he never looks up.  _I must have really messed up._  I make to leave, but place a small kiss at his hairline before getting off his bed.

"Please come find me when you want to talk. This is killing me, Kurt, but I'm not going to push you."

Just as I'm slinging my bag over my shoulder again, he looks up. His face is streaked with tears, and I feel like I've been stabbed in the heart knowing that I'm the cause.

"That's just it," he cries. His voice is so rough, and I flash back to the conversation in the commons.  _He hasn't come out of his room all day. Heard he's been crying most of the time too._  "You don't push. You sit by and let happen." He sniffles, and I grab the box of tissues off his nightstand and offer him one before sitting down again. "What happened to the Blaine I knew before I came here? The boy who opened his past up to me? Who drove two hours just to protect me? Who sang along with the songs from RENT with me? You're not the same person here."

I want to run away, because he's right. Dalton Blaine and Kurt's Blaine are two completely different people, and when they had to combine – well, Dalton Blaine won most of the battles. Dalton Blaine had too much to lose – scholarships and grades and solos and respect. Kurt's Blaine…he fell to the wayside, in most ways.

I open my mouth, about to try and explain this to him, when he holds up a hand to silence me.

"I don't want excuses, Blaine. I just don't want you pretending anymore. When I was at McKinley, I was proud of who I was. Even in the face of certain physical pain, I wouldn't deny who I was. And you were the first person I met who was the same way, who understood, who was proud to be gay. And then I come here – to a safe haven – thinking it'll be like paradise." He chokes over another sob, and I clench my fists, mentally berating myself for causing this.

"But it's not. You're so  _different_. You're like this Dalton robot – completely dapper, but completely pre-programmed. I was under the impression that you might actually like me. I guess I had deluded myself into believing someone as amazing as you could exist and like me. That you were so perfect. But all I see is a scared little boy now."

I stand up again, nearly tripping over my own feet as I do so. I'm crying by now too, and I can feel the fight or flight instinct that I've always had coming up. I try to fight it, but my feet have automatically taken me to the door before I realize it. I manage to fight the urge to flee – far away and fast – just long enough to utter one last thing:

"Everything that's pre-programmed can be re-programmed, Kurt. Sometimes it just takes a while to find the right commands."

And then, I run.

5.

_Do I seem familiar?_

_I've crossed you in hallways a thousand times._

_No more camouflage,_

_I want to be exposed and not be afraid to fall._

**For You I Will (Confidence) – Teddy Geiger**

Today is Valentine's Day, a day I despise with every fiber of my being. Even at an all boys school, there still was plenty of PDA going around. Not to mention tacky decorations. I mean, who decided that a little cherub in a diaper with heart-shaped arrows was cute? And don't get me started on the pink. I hate pink, and it seems to be in endless supply today.

So needless to say, I'm grumpy when my friends find me at breakfast. And it doesn't help that Kurt is sitting across the cafeteria, glancing up from his omelette every now and then and giving me this pitying look. I know we're not on the best of terms right now – or much of any terms, really – but I hate when he looks at me like that. Like I've completely let him down.

I bite into my bagel, perhaps more aggressively than necessary, and continue flipping through my calculus book, pretending to study for a quiz later that morning. Wes and David plop their food down in front of me and immediately try to immerse me in conversation.

"So, Valentine's Day, huh? Going to tell anyone anything, Blaine? Any dark, secret desires that may or may not have been plaguing your soul since you spilled your heart out to one endearingly awful spy over cold lattes?" David asks between bites of sugary cereal.

I roll my eyes at him, deciding not to grace it with a response. There's no point in denying it. They both know I like Kurt. Hell, I think the whole school knows, at this point. But there was also no point in adding fuel to their fire.

Then Wes decides to chime in. "Yeah, I mean, we know you have this thing against PDA and everything, but you should probably make a move before someone else does. Have you seen the way Jack stares at him during rehearsal?"

I jerk my head up, glaring at both of them.  _Why no, I hadn't noticed how Jack Conard had been staring at Kurt. Had he really been staring at Kurt?_

But even if I were to make a move, it wouldn't be today. That's too cliché. The last thing I need is for Kurt to think I'm asking him on a date just because of what day of the month it is. And the fear goes deeper than that, anyway. It's worse than just 'a thing against PDA.' Not that I'd ever admit that.

Sighing, I get up to put my plate and glass into the washroom. I set both on the rotating racks and turn around, bumping into the one person I wanted to avoid for the day.

"Oh, hey, Kurt. Sorry, let me help you with that," I say, bending down to help him pick up the plate he'd dropped.

"I got it. I'm fine," he replies, snatching the plate out from under my hand. He quickly places it on the rack and moves to walk away, but I manage to grab the strap of his bag before he can.

"Kurt, wait," I say, and he stops, glancing at me expectantly – and perhaps hopefully. But by now we have an audience. I drop the strap and take a step back, swallowing the growing lump in my throat. "Uhh, just…don't forget auditions for the Regionals solos are today."

I'm definitely mentally kicking myself as I walk away, but that wasn't the right time. I hurry off to calculus before anyone can say anything to make me feel even worse.

The class, and the rest of the classes today, pass in a blur. I can't concentrate on anything the teachers are saying. I'm really just ready for the day to be over so I can lock myself in my dorm room with my guitar and mope.  _Yeah, that sounds like a plan._  But of course, we have Warblers practice for two hours today. Two hours where I will be forced to sit in a tiny, enclosed room with the one thing that's driving me crazy.

Wes bangs his gavel to get everyone's attention and then stands up. "As you know, today is the day we hold auditions for Regionals. Blaine Anderson will, of course, maintain his position as lead soloist for Maroon 5's 'Misery,' but we need to find the soloist for Destiny's Child's 'Bills Bills Bills.' Auditioning today, we have Jack Conard, Kurt Hummel, and Aaron Mackintosh."

All three gave a small wave as their name is called. Wes then gestured to Aaron, calling him up for his audition. He gave a pretty good performance of Hinder's 'Lips of an Angel,' but his voice didn't blend well with mine. It was unlikely that the Warblers would ever have two soloists that were so different, and by the end of his audition, I assume he knew this. He sat down looking a bit put out.

Jack was the next one to audition. He brought his guitar up with him and sang a slightly slower rendition of 'Everything' by Michael Buble. This was more the style of song I would sing, and I could see how our voices would blend together. Of course, I was hoping that Kurt would beat him. Unless he pulls out another Broadway classic, he should be fine. The Warblers love his voice.

And then it was his turn. Slowly, and with much poise, he sits at the piano, playing the first few notes of 'Vanilla Twilight' by Owl City. His voice is actually perfect for the song, and it showed off that he had more to his voice than hitting soprano-range notes.

"Oh, if my voice could reach back through the past, I'd whisper in your ear: 'Oh darling, I wish you were here,'" he sings, finishing with a perfectly in tune note that seems to resonate and echo within the tiny room.

I glance around the room, and everyone seems really impressed. Which is totally exciting, because hopefully that means that Kurt and I will get to sing on the stage together at Regionals. The auditionees are told to sit in the hall while the ballots get passed around. I immediately check off Kurt's name and hand the ballot back in, biting my lower lip as everyone fills them out.

Wes and the other two members of the council then collect the ballots and count them, writing down the final results on a clean sheet of paper. As the lead soloist, I am then called forward to receive the results. It is, of course, my job to also tell the auditionees. Wes hands me the envelope and smiles, giving me a wink, before telling me to announce to the rest of the group who the soloist will be.

I open the envelope with shaking hands, already knowing the result. "Our 2011 Regionals second soloist will be Kurt Hummel," I announce, incredibly proud. I nearly run to the door, but stop just short of opening it to regain my composure. I tug at the bottom of my blazer, straightening it out, and then open the door.

The three are sitting there on the windowsill, looking incredibly nervous.

"Okay, well, as you all know, we don't have a second round of auditions for the Regionals solo. Whoever wins the vote earns the song, fair and square. Jack, Aaron, I'm sorry to tell you that you didn't make it this time. But please, audition again. You both did fantastic jobs."

They give me small, sad smiles and nod before walking back into the room, leaving Kurt and I alone in the hall.

"So, Kurt, guess that means we'll be sharing the stage next month," I say, sitting down beside him, but he moves away again. The scene in his bedroom flashes through my mind all over again, and I stand back up immediately.

"When are you going to talk to me about this, Kurt? I told you, I can't fix this unless you'll talk to me!" I slam my hand into the wall above his head, frustrated that he still can't stand to be around me.

He stands as well, using his few inches he has on me to his full advantage. "Okay, Blaine, you want to talk about this? You want to talk about how you're so scared to be rejected by your peers that you won't even chance a relationship? We're at  _Dalton_. There's a no bullying policy. Nobody's going to hurt you if you hold hands with another boy!"

I sputter, trying to find a retort, but he continues on without letting me get a word in. "You said you were going to re-program yourself, but you haven't. I thought maybe this morning at breakfast, you'd finally prove me wrong, but you just proved once and again how scared you really are."

"Whoa, okay, can I say something here?" By now, the rest of the Warblers have opened the practice room's door and are watching, completely confused. "You know what happened to me in the past. It's  _never_  gone well for me when I've tried to have any kind of relationship. So excuse me for being a little scared of ruining a friendship by making a move!"

"Ruining a friendship? What do you think this has been doing, Blaine? We haven't spent any time together in over a month," Kurt screams, looking down at me, a finger jabbing into my chest.

"I'm sorry! You're right. I'm scared. There, I said it, okay? I'm scared." My breathing is ragged. I feel like I've run a marathon. My heart is pounding so loudly, that I'm sure the drumline can hear it from their practice on the field. "I'm afraid to lose you, Kurt. I'm afraid of what people will think of me, too. I'm afraid that the past is simply going to repeat itself, and I'm afraid that my father is going to show up at any second and ruin this  _slight chance_  at happiness that I have here because he  _hates_  who I am. I'm afraid that everything I've sacrificed in getting you here has been for nothing, because I'm afraid that you hate me. You win. I'm a scared little boy." I turn away from him, away from the door of prying a cappella singers, away from the pain.

Kurt spins me back around, his hand staying firmly on my shoulder. "You don't have to be afraid, Blaine. Your past is called the past for a reason. You need to loosen up, be more spontaneous. Live for now, not for what may happen or what once occurred. You need to learn to be-"

"Kurt, I'm going to stop you right there," I say, holding a finger up to his lips.

"What? Why? I was just getting to-"

And I kiss him. Not caring who was looking. Not caring who might find out. Not caring what it might cost me in the long run. All I care about is that Kurt Hummel's lips are finally on mine, and  _dear God, he tastes like peppermint and vanilla._

"I'm not afraid anymore," I whisper, bringing my forehead down to his. Our noses brush up against each other's, and I smile. And he smiles back at me, for the first time in over a month.

(1.)

_Your voice_

_Was the soundtrack of my summer._

_Do you know you're unlike any other?_

_You'll always be my thunder._

" **Thunder" – Boys Like Girls**

"Are you nervous?" he asks while straightening my tie.

"Not at all," I shrug, pulling at the bottom of my blazer. He raises an eyebrow, and with both laugh. "Okay, maybe a little," I confess. "How do you do it, Blaine? You never seem scared when you perform at all."

"Practice, hon," he says, ruffling my hair. I scowl at him and smack his arm away, but then the lights dim and I know that it's time.

"Alright, line up, guys!" Wes yells over the commotion. The group splits and heads to the two opposite wings of the stage, and once the lights on the stage turn off completely, we walk out and take our places.

The second the lights turn back on, Blaine is belting out a faultless "Oh yeah" to begin 'Misery' and dancing around like his crazy self. The first song goes off without a hitch – we even stepped up our dancing some. Competing with Vocal Adrenaline, we didn't have much of a choice.

But now it's my turn. I step forward, giving Blaine a high five, before breaking into the first verse of 'Bills Bills Bills.' I love performing this song, even though I have no idea why it was chosen. It's  _definitely_  not top 40. But it gives me a chance to bring out my inner diva. I look out into the audience and can see that Rachel is loving it too. She's nudging Finn with her elbow, and they're both laughing. I step up the performance a little bit more, ending with a sassy "I don't think you do, so you. And. Me. Are. Through."

The audience has a good laugh, but we still have one more song to perform. Blaine once again takes center stage. The Warblers immediately begin the back-up to Teenage Dream.

I can feel my face flushing just listening to him sing, remembering the first time we met. I stumble over my singing part a little bit, a huge grin on my face. Blaine turns to the side and gestures to me at the line about his missing puzzle piece, similar to what he did in 'Hey, Soul Sister.' But the moment ends quickly, and he's running back towards the front of the stage, standing at the edge and spinning and dancing.

That's when it happens.

While trying to play up his dancing for the audience – which was admittedly not the best idea since he was standing on the  _edge of the stage_  – Blaine's left foot slides off the edge, sending him falling backwards onto his back, one leg splayed over the stage and one up underneath his body. I expect him to immediately jump back up, but he stays there. He keeps singing, but I know something has to be wrong.

Not considering that Wes will probably kill me, I run out to him, still singing, and sit down beside him. I take his hand, and we sway back and forth, trying to make it look as if this was planned – not like our lead soloist just twisted his ankle in the middle of a performance.

But to my surprise, Wes and David follow behind me immediately, taking a seat on the side of each of us. They sling an arm behind our shoulders, and one line at a time, the rest of the Warblers join us, never missing a beat.

We end the song in a total jam session manner, reminding me of my time at McKinley, but the audience apparently buys it, giving us a standing ovation. While the crowd is distracted by the performance's end, David and I help Blaine to his feet. He slings an arm around my shoulder and turns me toward him.

"Thank you," he says, looking like he's in a lot of pain, but still pretty happy overall. "That was a great performance, even if I did suck it up."

"You didn't," I assure him. And then, out of the blue, he pulls me down for a kiss. In front of the entire audience. It's short, probably only a few seconds, but by the time we break apart, my head is completely foggy.  _I guess he's re-programmed._

I stand there dazed for a moment, not even noticing the catcalls from the other Warblers around us (and the smacks on the back from Wes and David). Before my brain can reenact the filter between my brain and my mouth, however, I blurt out three words I expected would take a lot longer to surface in this relatively new, cautious relationship.

"I love you."

_No regrets. Just love._


End file.
